Death Speaks For Itself
by Akanesi
Summary: Well, he might be there for them, solid and predictable, tomorrow, but for today, breaking is just enough.


**Author's note:** This is my first House M.D. fic. I've only watched up to about half way through the second season which is probably why this is going to look a little AU to anyone who's watched the whole thing. Please review and tell me what you think, but can we have no spoilers in them? Thanks.

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Death speaks for itself.

As he stands at her bedside, staring down at the love of his life, he thinks on how furiously unfair the world is. It's taken everything he's ever wanted or cared about. It took his leg and stopped him striding down the road and running on a playing field. It stopped others seeing him as an equal or a better, causing them to now look on him with pity. It took his family from him, pulling them from him in the worst way a doctor can see his family die: something that he should be able to treat, but can't.

He remembers the day when he and dad sat at his mum's bedside, as she died. There was nothing he could do. Nothing and everything. The treatment should have worked, and he could see dad blamed him for it, even if, for once, he didn't tell the truth. He would have preferred to have her die in another hospital, without the eyes of his co-workers following him everywhere he went. He would have preferred to not take the time off work. He would have preferred to have gone into the clinic and buried himself in other people's worthless lives, rather than sit home, alone, with nothing but the overwhelming death that stole away his thoughts.

He knew when he signed up that it wouldn't be easy. Any doctor has seen their fair share of death. But it always cuts a little closer to the bone when it's one of your own, even if he tried to remain emotionless. He didn't cry, holding his sobbing father, as they watched mum being taken to the morgue. He didn't cry when his father pushed him away and shouted, telling him he should have saved her. He knew he was right. He _should_ have been able to save her. He didn't cry when, with his colleagues watching from the office across, his father punched him, clean across the face, and stormed out. He didn't cry when he pulled himself into a corner and huddled there. He didn't cry at all.

The next he heard of his father was when they called him four days again to identify the body. He had jumped off a bridge. He didn't cry then either. His team were watching, uncaring in their wish to care. He simply leaned heavily on the sharp metal table that held the last member of his family, and stared into the face of a man he had never loved, but, for all his words, couldn't quite find it in his heart to hate him either.

He had never been particularly good at choosing partners. Cuddy had been an office fling that, somewhat, cultivated itself into a kind of perverse friendship. Cameron was never an option; she was too delicate, too naive. He would have destroyed her. Wilson was a mistake. He finally realised why all Wilson's wives left him. He was impossible to live with, although, as a friend, it had always seemed like the perfect solution to all the loneliness.

They are all still here. It's a marvel really, from the way he treated them, and the way they treated each other. They gave up trying to see inside his head a while ago, though there are still those few reminisce moments when an old question resurfaces. The friendships weren't worth enough to him to give up anything though. That had always been the way. The world was unfair, so be unfair to what the world gives you. It wasn't a fact of him hiding away for the fear of being hurt. He knew he would be hurt whichever path he chose. He simply chose the one of least effort.

So, where he is now, sitting across from Mark, with the love of both their lives lying in the bed between them, carrying yet another disease that _should _be curable, but isn't, he realises that hiding isn't an option. But neither is running away, and neither is staying. Limbo is not a new word to him, but only now does he see the irony of everything in his life.

He turns to Mark. "Why did you marry her?" Despite all his bravado, he can't bring himself to say her name.

Mark looks at him, tearing his eyes away from his dying wife. "I love her."

"Did she love you?"

"You won't change will you?" Mark looked back at his wife. "You know, she said that I should grieve with you. That you knew what death was and would help me, merely because she _did_ love me."

"I understand death. Only too well. But I won't help you."

Mark shook his head, clutching at his wife's hand, as if, by some miracle, she would get better. "That's what I told her. But she seemed to think you cared enough about her for you to help me."

He stood on shaky legs and addressed the already grieving husband. "I don't have enough room for another dying soul just now."

A week later, later than anyone thought she would last, she died. It wasn't long, or heroic, like he always envisioned her dying. Mark went to get a drink of water and she died. One second he was holding her hand, at a time where no one would challenge him over it, and the next she was… gone.

The heart monitors flat lined and her hand seemed to fall from his grasp, even though it had been limp to begin with.

Once again, as when others died or left him, he didn't cry, merely stared at the screen, and gave up her hand when Mark returned. He knew what was coming before it did, when Mark turned to him.

"You could have saved her."

"I could have saved a lot of people."

"I hate you!"

"Isn't _that_ just cutting me up inside."

Mark stepped forward and he knew another punch was coming. And it was easier that way. This way everyone would follow Mark, the grieving husband, and he could crawl into the corner of the room, and grieve in peace.

But the strike never came. Mark was standing there, tears careening down his face, shaking his head.

"You know what? You're not worth it." Mark turned and left.

He remained where he was, still in limbo. He couldn't crawl away now. He couldn't do anything. His team were outside, watching him. He could hear one of them come into the room, followed by another, and suddenly they were all there. He supposed they were here to support him and tell, at least with their presence, that he wasn't alone in this.

They remained silent though. He seemed to take in their faces in a blur. Faces lined and worn from those few more years and too much death. Cuddy, Cameron, Wilson, Chase and Foreman. Not sure how to react, but sending sympathetic looks all the same. He can't _stand_ sympathy, when he has no real use of it.

These people have a solid and sure persona of him in their minds. He doesn't show emotions, doesn't care for anyone, and lets nothing affect him. Because of this, in a way, he holds them all together, pulling them back through logic and a need to solve the puzzle.

Right now they think they know what he's going to do. He's going to make a clipped remark about personal space and leave, without a backward glance. Though he's still standing there, motionless, and he can see them falter. If they don't knew what he's going to do, how can they figure him out? He sees Wilson getting ready to be the friend if this is the day he finally breaks.

Well, he might be there for them, solid and predictable, tomorrow, but for today, breaking is just enough.

Gregory House turns to the bed, sits in the chair next to it, cradles the hand of the woman lying there to his chest, and finally lets the tears go.

Oh yes, death speaks for itself very well.


End file.
